


Some Kind of Vibration at the Tip of the Tongue

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Series: Something Like Love At The Tip of The Fingers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Crying, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sam-Centric, Slice of Life, Smut, Stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love--" Bucky says, and looks at Sam, coy, like he doesn't know what he's doing. "You in that color."<br/>"I love," he says, "the way you look in this light." </p>
<p><i>I love,</i> he'd probably say, <i>How you breathe, Sam. How nice you are, Sam. How brown your eyes are, Sam.</i></p>
<p>It's almost like he thinks he's getting away with something. It's driving Sam <i>crazy.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Vibration at the Tip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi i'm back again here's a mild continuation of [something like tremors at the back of the throat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7656445), from Sam's POV, a little later on in their relationship. i'd say you ought to read that one first, if only bc this is a sequel and that's the way things are meant to work, but your life is your own.
> 
> this is for 'intimacy' but i like DOUBLING and making my life TRICKY so it's also 'conflict.' 
> 
> p.s. i told u i'd make him cry

The doorbell rings. 

 

Sam answers it with a sauce covered spoon wedged between his teeth, a phone in one hand, and a pot lid in the other. 

 

“I think he’s here now, actually,” he tells Steve, and weasels the phone in between his jaw and his shoulder so that he actually has a hand to use on the doorknob. 

 

His-- ha-- his  _ boyfriend  _ is, in fact, on the other side. 

 

“Happy date night,” Bucky says, and looks up at him from under his eyelashes, his hands tucked into his pockets. Sam snorts. When he juts his chin up, Bucky pulls the wooden utensil from his mouth.

 

“You’re letting in mosquitoes,” he snipes, and walks back towards the kitchen, leaving the door to Bucky. Bucky follows him, and hums happily when he sucks the spoon into his mouth. 

 

“I was using that,” Sam protests, but he’s finished, really, and should be looking for his serving things instead. He points towards the sink, and Bucky tosses it in, looking absolutely not guilty enough to qualify the water that splashes out. 

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Steve says, and Sam  _ definitely  _ forgot that was still happening. 

 

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, “Bucky’s been here ten seconds and already he’s making a mess.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, amused. “You two lovebirds enjoy your weekend away.” 

 

“It’s just a regular weekend, for me,” Sam says, and eyes Bucky. He’s making quick work of his spill with a sponge. Like he feels Sam’s eyes on him, he turns around. He smiles. He looks away still smiling. 

 

Sam doesn’t know why he said that. 

 

“Sure it is,” Steve says. 

 

“Bye,” Sam answers, and hangs up on him. 

 

Bucky comes around the counter to the stove and Sam feels him behind him, not quite touching, but willing to. 

 

“Hi. It’s good to see you.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, and turns around when Bucky taps at his hip. And then he’s looking at him like  _ that _ , smiling soft and  _ obnoxious _ , and he’s shaved, maybe yesterday, and he smells  _ really  _ good, and he’s wearing a  _ blazer _ . 

A t-shirt under it, but still. 

 

“Did you get all dressed up for me?” Sam teases, and Bucky laughs, the color rising in his cheeks. 

 

“Yeah. I just, its-- it’s been a little while, you know. Thought I’d show off a little.”

 

“You look good.” 

 

“Yeah?” Bucky says, and his smile brightens. If he was a dog, his tail’d be drilling holes in Sam’s floor. Sam laughs. “Good. I love-- that you think so.” And he thinks he’s being  _ coy _ , doesn’t he? His eyes flutter down, and to the side, and back to Sam’s, and Sam-- 

 

Sam kisses him. 

 

It’s only a little bit because he doesn’t know what to say. 

* * *

 

Sam’s been back in D.C. for a month. D.C. was everything Sam remembered, in miniature. He’d been through this before-- he left Harlem for a reason. It didn’t feel like home anymore. It had felt like, when his world grew, his neighborhood shrank, in on itself, tight and claustrophobic and too small to stretch his legs out. 

 

But D.C., he told himself, was convenient. Everyone who needed to knew where to find him. He had friends, a job, a life. Sometimes, an itch would wake him up at night, demanding that he fly far and fast and  _ away _ . In the first few days, he didn’t need to indulge it; he’d only needed to roll over, and Bucky was there, sleeping or touching him or sitting up awake. Company. Company that  _ got  _ it. Got the adrenaline in battle, and the vacuum it left outside of it. 

 

Bucky came with him, to help him settle in. And it was-- nice. Inevitably, he was called away, for things more clandestine and delicate than Sam had the patience for. Sam didn’t mind-- he could wait, reintegrate himself with pseudo-civilian life. 

 

With a job, and a routine, and a  _ boyfriend _ . 

* * *

 

“You have  _ all  _ of them?” Bucky says, after dinner, going through Sam’s old DVD shelf. “Wow. Listen, Sam... I  _ love _ \--” A dish slips from Sam’s hands, and sprays him with dirty water. “--that you have all of these.” 

 

Bucky looks up at the noise. Sam strips off his shirt. Bucky stops talking. He seems to have a harder time stopping that smile.  

* * *

 

He keeps  _ doing  _ it. 

 

The first time was their first date, at the diner in town. Sam said-- he can’t remember, he’d said something  _ dumb _ , something to make Bucky laugh, to make him relax, a little. Bucky  _ did  _ laugh. The problem was, right after that, he looked at Sam, his eyes shining, and said, “I love--” And paused. 

 

Stopped. 

Froze. 

 

Sam wondered, dazedly, if it was because of the  _ feral panic  _ he could probably see on Sam’s face. 

 

“That you picked this place,” he finished, after half a second, maybe, after  _ no time at all _ , and he smiled, and picked up a fry, and dumped it in Sam’s mayonnaise, just to be contrary, and grinned around it, laughed while chewing. 

 

“You have  _ no  _ manners, who raised you?” Sam snapped at him, and he only laughed again. 

 

And they slid right back into it. They went  _ right back into it _ , like it wasn’t anything, that he almost said, that he almost-- 

 

_ On their first date _ . 

 

And it becomes a  _ pattern _ . 

 

“Sam,” he says, the next morning, when they’re in bed together, because they did do things backwards, didn’t they, no use in changing it now. “I love waking up next to you.” 

 

“Sap,” Sam says, but he’s only just opened his eyes, he’s still mostly asleep, and he’s warm and happy and Bucky presses soft kisses behind his ear and it’s  _ nice _ . 

 

But--

 

“I love you in your purple shirt, that one,” Bucky says, when he’s leaving for work a week later. 

 

“I love the way you look, like this,” he says, from between Sam’s legs, from across Sam’s table, from right next to him, on the couch, when the sun’s setting on them.

 

It’s driving Sam  _ crazy _ . 

* * *

 

And not for, say, a  _ good  _ reason. He knew that Bucky had stronger feelings than he did, going in, but-- shouldn’t they have, Jesus, settled  _ down _ ? 

 

He looks in the mirror, some mornings, and tries to get the hype. 

 

Sam is comfortable, and confident, and charming, good at people. But this is something different. Bucky is... he’s adoring, and devoted and he’s  _ in love with him _ , and that’s. That gets Sam’s breathing off track. 

* * *

 

He goes to work-- “I love the way you look in that shirt,” Bucky says, half-asleep, the words muffled against Sam’s duvet. He pretends he hasn’t heard it, and kisses Bucky on the forehead before he slips out. It’s domestic in a way that makes his heart vibrate at a frequency he’s not used to-- and gives Maura at the front desk a hypothetical.

 

“Say I’m hypothetically... with someone.” 

 

“You are with someone,” Maura says, blinking at him. “Your boyfriend. I know this for a fact.” 

 

“Yeah, but hypothetically--”

 

“It stops being hypothetical when they become your boyfriend, Sam.” 

 

“ _ Hypothetically _ ,” he repeats, “this ‘boyfriend,’” and his air-quotes honestly don’t deserve the eyeroll he gets, “says things that  _ heavily imply  _ that he’s... very, very serious, about this relationship--” 

 

“He asking for your ring size?” 

 

“ _ No _ .” 

 

“I don’t like hypotheticals,” Maura says glumly. “Give me the real problem or leave me alone, Wilson.” 

 

“Fine!” Sam leans in closer. “I think he might be in love with me,” he says, under his breath, and Maura pulls away, entirely unimpressed. 

 

“That last intern we had, the one who you had maybe two conversations with? She was in love with you.” 

 

“That’s nice,” Sam says patiently. 

 

“Why exactly are you struggling to deal with the idea that your  _ boyfriend  _ might be, too?” 

 

Sam’s mouth drops open. 

 

“I’m not-- I’m not  _ struggling _ , I-- it’s been a  _ month _ .” 

 

“It  _ has _ ?” she deadpans, looking at her nails. “That explains the general lovesick expression you’ve been wearing since you got back.” 

 

“I said  _ he  _ was in love,” Sam says, “not me.” 

 

“Get away from my desk,” Maura says. 

 

* * *

 

Sam thinks about it in his office. 

 

It’s only been a  _ month _ , plus a week or so when things were less complicated. Felt less permanent. And then a couple months of friendship, from tentative to comfortable. Sam loved the guy when they were  _ friends _ , of course, but that’s  _ easy _ . Straight-forward. You can’t do that wrong. 

 

Sam isn’t  _ ready  _ for it. 

 

Bucky’s been ready from the start. 

 

Sam pushes his chair out from his desk and marches back out to reception. There’s a vet, talking to Maura, figuring out their plan for the next few weeks. Sam waits behind them with his fists balled up. He’s digging into his palms in a steady rhythm. He feels like he’s about to  _ burst _ . 

 

The vet walks towards the bank of chairs opposite Maura’s desk, and Sam throws himself across the counter, his chin bouncing off of the fake wood. 

 

“What if I’m not-- if I can’t say-- that. Yet?” Maura stares at him. 

 

“Then you don’t say it.” 

 

“But--” 

 

“Are you happy?” she interrupts. Sam doesn’t have to think about it. He nods. “And has it been a problem up until now?” He shakes his head. 

 

He’s expecting something positive and a little flippant, something to round out her pep talk that he can go home with, kiss Bucky without worry or fear for the future. Instead, he gets a furrowed brow and a pair of painted lips pursing to the side. 

 

“Why is it a problem for you now?” 

 

And  _ that’s  _ the story of how Maura breaks him right before his lunch break, and Sam ends up getting sent home early. 

* * *

 

“Sam!” Bucky says when he comes through the door. He looks happy to see him, until he registers Sam’s scowl and the fact that he’s home several hours earlier than he should be. “What do you need?” he asks, first, and Sam throws up his hands. 

 

“Nothing!” He pushes past him and walks towards his room, tossing his bag onto the couch on the way. “ _ Apparently  _ I’ve been snapping at people and  _ bringing down office morale _ , as if it’s my fault that they, what, what is that-- what’s that smell?” He stops just short of the stairs, turning back to Bucky. 

 

Bucky, who’s watching him cautiously, and wearing an  _ apron _ . Sam closes his eyes. 

 

“ _ What  _ are you doing.” 

 

“Cooking,” Bucky says defensively. But the thing about cooking in Sam’s house is, the smells travel upwards. As soon as Sam takes one step up, it hits him stronger-- he knows it’ll be  _ bad  _ upstairs. Whatever it is, it’s almost sickly sweet-- like someone’s set vanilla on fire and tortured chocolate and cinnamon on top of it. 

 

Sam stares at Bucky. Bucky looks up at the ceiling, like that’s going to get him out of this. 

 

“It was,” he says after a moment, swallowing hard, “a dish that was... supposed to be chilled and not baked. Perhaps.” 

 

“And you...?” 

 

“Baked it,” Bucky says weakly. 

 

“Burned it to hell, more like,” Sam snorts. He walks back down the stairs and up to Bucky, closer and closer until he has to look at him, and Sam smirks when Bucky takes a guilty step away. 

 

“It was an experiment!” Bucky protests. “Obviously I had time to get rid of the evidence, before you got home. That was, of course, assuming that you  _ wouldn’t _ get called in to the principal’s office--” 

 

“Hey!” 

 

“Hey, yourself,” Bucky retorts. “I’ll try again, and I’ll get it right, and you’ll just have to--”

 

“What?” Sam asks hotly, “I’ll have to what?” 

 

“ _ God _ , I love--” Bucky’s eyes roll up to the ceiling. “How you feel like you should be taking whatever all  _ this  _ is out on me. Meanwhile, I’m at home, trying to bake you a...  _ thing-- _ ”

 

“A thing that shouldn’t have been baked at all?” Sam says innocently. Bucky sends him a withering glare. 

 

“I have cleaning to do,” he sniffs. “Maybe  _ you _ should go take a  _ nap _ .” He turns on his heel. Sam, on the other hand,  _ is  _ a heel. 

 

“Buck,” he sighs, but Bucky’s busy scraping something blackened and charred off of Sam’s most-used baking sheet. He bites back his irritation. “I’m sorry,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I shouldn’t be lashing out. It’s unfair, and unnecessary, and-- for the love of-- just fill it with soap and water and let it sit for a minute, Bucky, I swear to god.” 

 

“Yeah, you sound  _ real  _ sorry,” Bucky grumbles, but he does it. 

 

Sam is. He  _ is _ . But-- 

 

He takes a deep breath, and tells himself there shouldn’t  _ be  _ a but. There shouldn’t be a qualifier. Either he’s sorry, or he isn’t. Either he’s in, or he’s out. Either he l-- 

 

He walks up behind Bucky and wraps his arms around his waist. When he doesn’t pull away, he rests his cheek against his back and leans against him a little heavier. 

 

“I’m annoyed at everyone today,” he admits, and judging from the rumble against his face, Bucky’s laughing at him. 

 

“Even me, huh?” 

 

“ _ Especially _ you,” Sam says, fighting back a smile. “You’re the one scraping my baking sheet to death.” 

 

“With a  _ wooden  _ spatula,” Bucky dismisses. “It’ll be fine.” 

 

“You--” Sam fights the urge to pull back and storm away. Instead, he squeezes his arms tighter. “That’s not how it  _ works _ ,” he says, and there’s a bite in his voice, still, but  _ really _ . “You’re pushing freakin’-- man-made volcanic rock around a sheet of soft, innocent metal, you really think nothing’s gonna happen to it?” 

 

Bucky sniffs. “Rock? That’s a little--” he picks up a blackened hunk, and tries to crumble it apart with his natural fingers. It doesn’t budge. “The weaponization of sugar,” he says thoughtfully, and Sam-- 

 

He warms from every point of contact, from the outside in. He blinks. It feels like there’s steam collecting around his eyes. His chest constricts. His bites his lips into his mouth and everything  _ tingles _ . 

 

“What was the occasion, anyway?” he asks quickly, leaning up and capping his chin over Bucky’s shoulder and shoving whatever that was  _ away _ .

 

Bucky shrugs, but not hard enough to dislodge him. 

 

“We’ve-- I figured you probably weren’t keeping track, and it’s not a big deal, but. We’ve been dating for a month. It feels like something, you know.”

 

“ _ I’m  _ feeling something,” Sam says, as lewdly as he can manage. Because if he distracts him, then he doesn’t have to think about the way  _ that  _ makes everything inside of him flip over.

 

“The bow on my apron?” Bucky asks innocently, and Sam turns him around and kisses him sweeter than he thought he could. 

 

Bucky’s mouth is, as ever, soft and pliable against his. He lets Sam lead the kiss, opens when he presses, follows him when he pulls away. 

 

Bucky blinks at him in slow motion. His irises are more black than blue. 

 

If Sam ever called what he’s doing now a pout, he’d never hear the end of it. 

 

“Don’t stop, what’re you doing,” Bucky murmurs, and his hands trail up the sides of Sam’s neck, to almost cradle his face, his thumbs brushing, soft and diligent against his cheekbones. Sam shivers. He feels--

 

Adored. Thoroughly. Enthusiastically. 

 

Bucky pulls him into another kiss, and he gives way to it. 

* * *

 

Round one is Sam bouncing hard enough to get out of his head, his hands curled around his headboard, Bucky below him making noises that he recognizes, of course, but feel different, now-- 

 

Bucky says, between gasps, “I love you-- like this-- love--  _ having  _ you-- like this--  _ Sam _ \--” 

 

And Sam can’t find his words, can’t really find himself; he brings his hands down to Bucky’s shoulders when he gets close, and pulls Bucky up to kiss him, so he’s sitting in his lap, instead, and Bucky’s knees come up to bracket him in. Bucky’s hands come to either side of his hip, and  _ move  _ him, hard and purposeful. 

 

“Buck, I--” Sam says, and pulls at his hair, so that they’re eye to eye, so that Bucky can see him when he says, “I think I l--” 

 

Bucky kisses him, hard, and slams his hips up faster, and Sam comes between them, untouched, gasping Bucky’s name into his mouth. 

 

Bucky trails that mouth down Sam’s jaw, his neck, runs his teeth along his shoulder. 

 

Sam wants to preserve this moment. It’s soft and impervious and he sighs when Bucky comes, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him up against him tight. Bucky runs his hands up and down Sam’s back, digging into knots he hadn’t realized he was carrying. 

 

“That feels good,” Sam murmurs, still draped on top of him. 

 

“ _ All  _ of that felt good, I should hope,” Bucky says back, just as quiet, and presses a kiss into Sam’s shoulder. “How about that nap?” 

 

“You gonna burn down my kitchen while I sleep?” 

 

Bucky hums. “I could. Or I could stay here with you.” 

 

Sam pulls back so that Bucky can see him when he says, “Yes, please.” 

* * *

 

Round two, which counts because they are together, and naked, and it’s  _ so good _ , is a nap. 

 

It’s a very good nap. 

* * *

 

Sam wakes up first. 

 

It means he gets a minute to look at him. They aren’t quite spooning; Bucky’s on his back, his head tipped towards Sam, and their legs are tangled together. Sam’s curled towards him, his forehead pressed against his shoulder. He kisses him there, because he can, and he can reach, and he’s too comfortable to move anywhere else besides. 

 

Bucky must’ve been close enough to waking, because he mutters something that isn’t quite a word under his breath, and tries to turn over  _ onto  _ Sam. He rolls back immediately, surprised, sleep-glazed eyes opening wide and alarmed. He brings his right arm away from Sam’s head, and Sam slips onto the pillow with a small noise of distress. 

 

“Sorry,” he rasps, and smiles, but his eyes are closing again. His arm-- Sam’s previous, much warmer pillow-- drifts over his stomach, and Sam drifts his own hand after it, stroking along cool skin. 

 

“Hi,” he says quietly. Bucky’s eyes don’t open, but his smile ticks up higher. 

“Hi yourself,” he says, and twists just enough to drop a kiss onto Sam’s forehead before laying flat again. Again, his smile grows. “I love waking up with you.” 

 

Something in Sam’s chest  _ crawls _ . His hand stills, for a moment, before resuming its motions. He doesn’t want-- he doesn’t want  _ Bucky  _ to think there’s something wrong. Doesn’t want him to-- 

 

_ Are you happy _ , Maura asked, as if he couldn’t be. As if that could  _ ever  _ be a problem with Bucky. Bucky, who turns towards him, scoots over a little so that they’re eye to eye. Bucky, who drifts his metal hand down the side of Sam’s face, so gently, his eyes tracing the outline of his face, looking so warm, so  _ happy _ . 

 

“You’ve got a halo,” Bucky says, apropos of nothing. 

“Are you still asleep?” Sam asks, confused. 

 

Instead of answering, Bucky says, “I love you in this light. It’s-- the way the sun hits you, you’re-- I don’t know. Highlighted. You look like an angel.” 

 

Sam closes his eyes. “That is...  _ incredibly  _ sappy, even for you.”

 

“You go around with wings, the sun surrounds you,” Bucky defends indignantly, “it’s an angel or Icarus, and I prefer you  _ not _ falling, thank you.”

 

“Welcome change,” Sam snorts, and Bucky shakes his head forward and hides behind his hair. 

 

“I didn’t mean to--” 

Sam puts an arm around his shoulders, and doesn’t say a word. 

 

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Their history is ugly. It’s tainted, and out of their control, and it’s not the sort of thing you forgive, so much as forget, or get pulled back to it, again and again. Sometimes it rears up and makes everything else feel borrowed. But you can’t really borrow love. Can’t take it like medicine, force it down and hope it cures things. 

 

_ But _ , Sam tells himself aggressively, like he has before, like he’s going to have to again,  _ this  _ is what they signed up for. What they’ve committed to. And how many times does a life saved make up for trying to end the same one?

 

So Sam says, “Thanks,” and Bucky doesn’t move his head from his chest, but his palm does go flat against Sam’s stomach, so he assumes he’s listening. “For that time with the weird robots. And that time last month I almost got shot. And way before that--” 

 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks. 

 

“There are more things to remember,” he says, and Bucky sits up.

 

“I’m really glad I’m here,” he says shyly. He’s looking down at where his hand has migrated to Sam’s chest, right over his heart. 

 

“I’m glad to have you here,” Sam says, and thinks about happiness. Thinks about Bucky in his bed, and his kitchen, and his living room. Thinks about how comfortable this is. 

 

_ Why is it a problem for you now _ ? 

 

“I love--” Bucky starts, and if he lets out another  _ fucking  _ platitude about how he loves how  _ nice  _ Sam is or how much  _ sense  _ he makes or how  _ brown  _ his eyes, are Jesus Ch--

 

_ Why is it a problem for you now _ ? 

 

“Because I love you,” Sam thinks, realizes, wakes up to, and oh, Lord. That explains it. That’s, huh, that’s not-- well. If there was ever a time to notice.

 

Or maybe, he reconsiders, panic starting to twist in his stomach, maybe this was really, really awful timing. Because Bucky’s face has gone  _ white _ , and his eyes are wide and hunted, and Sam  _ said that out loud _ . 

 

“ _ What _ ?” he says, and Sam sits up, because the panic is spreading, and it seems like it needs a little help to make it up to his head. 

 

“What do you mean  _ what _ ?” Sam demands. “I said--” 

 

“I heard what you said!” Bucky rakes a hand through his hair and pulls at the strands. “This is-- this is my fault, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to-- I didn’t mean to  _ push  _ you into this. Sam--” 

 

Sam is right here, right in front of him, really, horribly confused. And where the Venn diagram of confused and panic meet, they both turn into hurt. 

 

“You-- I mean, if you don’t, that’s-- I didn’t mean to--” 

 

“ _ No _ ,” Bucky says roughly, and pulls farther away. “This isn’t about me, this about you being pressured into saying something you don’t mean.” 

“You think I didn’t want to say that?” Sam demands, offended. And it was an accident, sure, but  _ Bucky  _ doesn’t know that.

 

“I  _ know _ you didn’t want to say that.”

 

“No, you don’t.” 

 

“I  _ do _ ,” Bucky snarls, and gets off of the bed, stark naked and furious. “That’s why  _ I  _ never said it, Sam, you-- and I’m alright with that! I don’t need you to  _ love _ me, especially if it means that...” Bucky draws in a breath.

 

“What,” Sam asks, suddenly entirely unprepared to hear the answer, “What will it mean?” And then-- 

 

And then there’s the stunning little fact that Bucky never  _ actually  _ said that he loves him. It’s always been tangential. It’s always, just barely, missed him. 

 

“I guess I,” Sam swallows. “Misunderstood? I thought you-- It’s not a big deal,” he swears, even though it feels like his insides are throttling themselves, trying to strangle his tongue, anaesthetize his heart, “If you don’t love me back, man. It doesn’t require the... fanfare.” He waves at Bucky, still standing by the bed. He tries to smile. 

  
He tries again. 

 

Bucky’s mouth opens. It closes. It opens again. It closes so sharply that Sam can hear his teeth clack together. Sam has, apparently, broken something. 

 

“ _ No _ ,” Bucky breathes finally, and Sam closes his eyes. “No, no, no--” There’s a dip on the bed, and then Sam feels his body heat before he touches him, and then feels his hands on his shoulders, on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing against his jaw. “Sam?” 

 

His name, said weakly, a tremor in the middle. Sam opens his eyes. 

 

Bucky’s eyelashes are wet, his eyes red-rimmed, but he’s smiling, tentatively. 

 

“I didn’t want to pressure you into saying it,” he says, sniffs, “so I tried to... not.” 

 

“It wasn’t subtle,” Sam says cautiously. He lets Bucky pull at his hands until he’s sitting up opposite him. Bucky’s hands are tight around his wrists. Sam can’t run. 

 

It doesn’t stop him from considering it. 

 

“You love me?” Bucky whispers, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say it. Sam sighs. 

 

“Yes,” he mutters, looking everywhere but at Bucky, “but it’s not like we have to talk about it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and Sam feels a little like he’s been kicked between the ribs. 

 

“Me too,” he says sharply, and it’s so  _ childish _ , and it’s  _ unnecessary _ , but he  _ can’t even get his hands back  _ and he’s never felt so trapped in his  _ life _ . This-- all of this-- was a mistake.

 

As if sensing that, Bucky’s eyes narrow, and he pulls Sam’s hands into his lap, his grip tightening. 

 

“I’m sorry for  _ you _ ,” he says tartly. “That you’ve been stuck with  _ me _ . And you are, by the way, because I love you.”

 

“Shut up,” Sam says immediately, and Bucky’s glare deepens. Sam’s heart feels swollen. Like if he’s not careful, it’ll abandon him, bolt across the inches between them to Bucky instead. Leave him in the dust. And the thing is, he’s not sure he would blame it, but it stings all the same.

 

“No,” he says rudely. “I  _ love  _ you, Sam Wilson, but if I find out that I  _ guilted  _ you into saying the same--” 

 

“Shut up,” Sam says again, a little softer, and Bucky’s cheeks are so red, and his eyes are welling up again, and his smile is so obnoxiously wide. 

 

“ _ No _ ,” he says again, and Sam wrenches his hands out of his grasp and pushes him over. Bucky gasps out a laugh, and squirms himself into the position he wants to be in, shimmying Sam’s legs apart so that he has to spread them around his hips. “I  _ love  _ you, and you  _ love  _ me, and you don’t get to take it back.” 

 

“You’re so stupid,” Sam complains, and digs his fingers into Bucky’s ribs until those tears are at least half from laughter. 

 

“I-- hate-- you,” he gasps, and when he tries to bring his hands up to return the torture, Sam catches  _ his  _ wrists, and press them into the mattress on either side of his head. They sit like that, for a moment, breathing hard. Sam presses their foreheads together. 

 

“I can’t believe you  _ love  _ me,” Bucky says, his voice low and wet and  _ awed _ . 

 

“You expect me to believe that wasn’t a carefully thought out strategy?” Sam asks, half-joking. 

 

“It was a reflex,” Bucky admits, a little sheepishly. “It was always right  _ there _ , but it felt like it was too soon to say it, for you, and I didn’t want-- I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, or unhappy--” 

 

“So you just described everything else  _ directly related to me  _ that you loved,” Sam deadpans, and Bucky lets out a laugh that sounds like it’s at least half sob. 

 

“Because I loved everything about you.” 

 

“Sap,” Sam chides, and pulls away to look at him. He wipes at the tear tracks that have slid into Bucky’s hair. He bends down to brush a kiss against his cheek. “I wasn’t expecting this,” he admits quietly. “I think that’s why I’ve been such a jerk today. I was so busy telling myself that  _ you  _ were being ridiculous that I didn’t stop to listen to myself.” 

 

“Ridiculous?” 

 

“You’re always so...” Sam waves his hand. “Affectionate. It’s been... a lot.” 

 

“What?” Bucky scoffs. “You think you don’t deserve that?” 

 

“I don’t know how to give it  _ back _ ,” Sam tells him, frustrated, and Bucky has the gall to  _ laugh _ . 

 

“You do  _ plenty _ .” 

 

“I don’t! It doesn’t feel like I... Do I?” Sam sighs and sits back on Bucky’s hips, letting his arms drift up around himself. It’s defensive, he knows, but it makes him feel better, steadier. “I keep-- I keep waiting for this to end. Every other time I’ve done this, it’s had a clear beginning, and a clear end. Our beginning was a mess--”

 

“A hot mess,” Bucky supplies with a grin. 

 

“-- So I’m not sure what our ending will look like. But now--” 

 

“Now we’re something else?” Sam nods. Impossibly, it looks like Bucky’s tearing up  _ again _ , so Sam slides down a little lower, presses kisses against his jaw, his neck, anything to ease him up again. “See? Like that, you’re doing it. I told you you did alright with this,” Bucky gasps when Sam gets down to his chest. In retaliation, Sam tickles him again, and Bucky yelps, arching up towards his mouth. Sam digs his teeth in. 

 

“ _ Please _ !” Bucky gasps. 

 

“What do you want?” Sam asks, leaning up to run his lips along his ear. 

 

“ _ You _ ,” Bucky groans, “You, always,  _ please, _ I love you, I lo--” 

 

“Mm, but do you  _ want  _ me?” Sam growls into his ear, and gasps when Bucky grinds against him, because  _ that  _ is a yes. 

 

“Always,” Bucky says, earnest. His voice has dropped an octave, and Sam drops down to kiss him, just to feel his voice vibrate against his lips. 

 

“I love you,” he whispers against his mouth, and Bucky  _ moans _ . 

 

“Get to work,” Bucky whines, and Sam bites against his ear, presses Bucky’s hands deeper into the mess of bedclothes beneath them. 

 

“I’m taking my time with you,” Sam promises. Bucky brings his legs up to wrap them around Sam’s waist and grins at him. 

 

“If I heard you correctly,” he says happily, smugly, like he can’t believe what he’s got, “we have forever.” 

 

They get started immediately.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> THANKS FOR READING shout-out to everyone who commented on the first one and everyone who comments later it sometimes takes me a while to process and answer but i love all of you. and a special shout-out to the person who was like 'i like how they weren't at the same emotional spot yet' while i was already working on this, to which i thought, 'ha but you forget, i am a Ho for Romance.' 
> 
> as ever, i am [@thisurlisblank](http://thisurlisblank.tumblr.com), at least until i am no longer using that handle.
> 
> if you'd like to know what happens next: 
> 
> they have spiritual, life-affirming sex, and then they shower separately to make the reservations bucky made (bucky cries some more in the shower and _feels_ like a sap and is like, oh no, sam's right, oh god, i love him) and they do some more missions together sometimes, but usually it's just bucky called away. 
> 
> bucky has his own apartment in new york. it's a little one, right down the hall from steve. 
> 
> guess how long it takes for them to move in with each other
> 
> or, ok, more accurately, guess how long it takes ONE OF THEM to realize that the other basically has, and guess WHO is WHO(M?)


End file.
